


Crown of Thorns

by Nessa4



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Feels, Bruce Banner Has Issues, Clint Barton Has Issues, Clint Needs a Hug, Clint is dyslexic, Deaf Clint Barton, Dyslexia, Eating Disorders, F/M, Feels, Flashbacks, Fluff, Hospital, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Night Terrors, Nightmares, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Phil whump, Protective Bruce Banner, Protective Jarvis (Iron Man movies), Rape Recovery, Recovery, SO MANY TRIGGERS PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Snarky Jarvis, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Tony Feels, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Whump, discussion of pancakes in the comment section, everyone has issues seriously, phil coulson/clint barton feels, so much whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-29 02:24:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7666669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nessa4/pseuds/Nessa4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>UPDATE 25/7/18: new chapter!</p><p> </p><p>For a prompt on avengerkink:<br/>For some reason Tony ends up working together undercover with Clint on one of his secret missions. They go MIA and get captured and are both sexually assaulted. Now they are back and the mission is over. Clint returns to his life as if nothing happened. </p><p>Tony struggles. And what tears him apart even harder is that he watches Clint fall back into a normal routine with life and intimacy with Coulson while Tony is still stuck in that nightmare. Tony hates everything Clint is but he doesn't see the struggle Clint and Phil work through by themselves, the panic attacks Coulson has to dissolve, the nightmares he has to wake up to, or even sometimes when Clint is so deeply trapped in his mind and thinks Coulson is an attacker and he fights hard for his life against his lover. Tony can't wrap his mind around how Clint can go straight back to having sex when he himself struggles to let Steve get close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. tony: capture

When Tony feels the sharp stabbing of a tranquilizer dart in his shoulder, a sudden, acute pain that takes a few moments to register, his first thought is of breakfast.  
Specifically, it is of the fact that he'd forgotten to eat anything before leaving the house. It wasn't his house, just one that he shared with Clint for the mission, and he didn't have Steve around to remind him to eat properly. Usually, if he didn't eat, Steve would hover around with a pleading look on his face, and, really, Tony couldn't deny Steve anything when he made the pleading face, it was frankly unfair.  
But today, Steve hadn't been around to look needy and hopeful, and so Tony had left the house barely noticing his hunger.  
His eyes lock on Clint's, and the archer drops to the ground. Some part of Tony's mind notes with a detached surprise that Clint is silent even in unconsciousness, and how the hell does he do that, it's getting scary now--  
He feels his thoughts become more fuzzier, slower, almost as if he's thinking through treacle. Treacle, that'd be nice. Maybe on pancakes? What is treacle even supposed to go on, it's literally just pure sugar---  
Think, Tony, think...  
Amongst the tangled jumble of _goddammit this can't be good_  and _who the hell even uses tranq guns nowadays?_ there is a clear impression that he won't be getting any breakfast, and that he should really have eaten before he left the house.  
Damn. Of _course_ the day he doesn't eat is the day he gets shot down in the middle of the street. Maybe that's why Steve always tells him to eat properly?  
Some part of his mind registers the absurdity of his train of thought, but as his knees give out, even as his thoughts drift away, as insubstantial as mist on the water, it is the last thing on his mind.


	2. tony: power play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING FOR RAPE  
> I've been writing fanfiction for a long time, but this is my first attempt at anything non-con; as a result, I've tried not to be too explicit.

When Tony wakes up, he manages not to open his eyes.

He has been captured before, but this time, he is fully aware of what has happened. _Don't open your eyes. Don't give anything away._ As much as he hates to admit it, a combination of SHIELD training and past experience is kicking in; although he can't ignore the prickling sensation of being watched, he manages to think about the past events, of what led him here.

Is there another person in the room?

Clint would know. Clint would be able to tell without a sign that he was conscious.

_Clint._

He feels his breath stutter, a sharp inhale, as he remembers the archer falling, slowly, soundlessly, dropping to the ground.

But what happened after that?

_The facts, Tony. Find out the facts._

He is distinctly aware of lying on something soft. His legs are spread wide, too wide, with restraints on his ankles; he knows how much pain he's going to be in later; and his hands are chained up; not the soft, kinky handcuffs that his friends from university would use, but sharp, cold metal. He can't see them, but he's sure they'll cut up his wrists if he struggles at all.

If he struggles against what? Against who?

He has learned from Afghanistan. He keeps his eyes closed, running calculations in his mind, but although he knows he's indoors, and tied up, possibly on a bed, he can't find anything else out without opening his eyes, and he isn't keen to do that.

And… shit, he's naked. How can he not have noticed that until now? How can his mind have overlooked that? Perhaps he just didn't want to contemplate it. Because he's naked and tied up on a bed, what else can that mean? What other conclusion can he jump to, aside from the worst one?

Now that he's realised, he can almost feel his skin tingling.

It's a power play, nothing more. Some sick power play, to show him who's in control. It won't be anything more. It can't be.

He shifts, irrationally hoping that knowing what he's lying on will give him an idea of where the hell he is. A moment later, he freezes, realizing his mistake, but the moment may well have been an eternity for all the good that it does him.

'Stop trying to pretend,' a lilting voice says. 'I know you're awake.' The words should sound angry, harsh, but the voice that Tony hears is calm, almost amused. He contemplates keeping his eyes closed, pretending he is still out, if only for some small moment of rebellion, but he could barely be in a worse position right now. _Not worth it,_ he tells himself.

The sight he sees when he opens his eyes is not one he expects. A perfectly ordinary man; of medium height, brown hair, brown eyes, light skin, in his twenties or thirties; unremarkable and forgettable in every way; stares unflinchingly back at Tony, and… is he _grinning_? He can't be. That would be…

Tony can't even think of a word to describe how sick that would be.

He says nothing, staring at the man in silent defiance. But some of his thoughts must show on his face, because the man leans forward, stepping closer to him. He doesn't know what he's expecting, but when the man places his hand on Tony's arc reactor, he can barely fight back the surge of pure panic that threatens to overwhelm him.

Despite the rush of pure terror, despite the memories clawing at the edge of his mind, he doesn't allow himself to do any more than take a deeper breath than normal _. Power play, it's just a power play, nothing more…_

The man's fingers play over the arc reactor, the blue light flickering under his palm, and although it's nothing more than Steve would do _… Steve_. His heart seizes at the thought of the supersoldier, of his lover, all other thoughts stopping instantly. He can imagine just how broken Steve would be at seeing him like this; Tony knows he has to do everything he can to stop this from getting out.

In an effort to distract himself from what is happening, he looks around the room. It's small, but there's nothing else even vaguely noteworthy. _Boring,_ sings a small part of Tony's mind, the small part that refuses to bow down to anyone. The walls are white, and there is nothing but two beds, one of which he is lying on.

Seeing the other bed makes Tony wonder where Clint is. Is he receiving the same treatment? Is he even here? Could he be facing something like this, or worse? Is there anything worse than this?

He knows he will drive himself crazy if he lets the questions fly around his mind, but he hasn't uttered a word since he came to, and he's not going to, for as long as he can help it.

Almost as if the man read his thoughts, he smiles. 'Oh, and your little friend? The illiterate, deaf idiot with a bow and arrow?' Tony tries not to react, hating every word, hating the contempt in the man's expression, hating the man more than he can say. _He's not illiterate, he's dyslexic,_ Tony wants to yell, but he keeps his mouth shut as the man continues. 'Oh, he's coming.'

Barely a minute passes, Tony digesting this information in silence, trying to work out what it means, before the door opens, and a man and a woman walk in, with blank faces and dead eyes. They are holding Clint between them; the archer is struggling, and as naked as Tony.

_Power play, power play, they're trying to show us that they're in charge, they won't do anything…_

It's getting harder to believe.

Clint is limping, and he has what looks to be the beginnings of a black eye, but he's alive. For now, Tony has to focus on that. He has to.

Within seconds, Clint has been tied up on the other bed, the same as Tony. But while Tony has been silent the whole time, the younger archer is still spitting curses, yelling furiously, kicking and punching for all he is worth. Despite this, all his efforts are in vain.

They don't make eye contact with each other.

This tells Tony more than anything that Clint knows what's coming next.

Of course he knows.

Clint doesn't fall silent until the man undresses; slowly, deliberately; as if he knows how much the suspense is growing.

But after he falls silent, he stays silent the whole way through. Tony squeezes his eyes shut, but although he can't see anything, his hands are still in those stupid, _stupid_ handcuffs, and he can't cover his ears, can't block the sounds of Clint's stuttering breaths and, worse, of the man's moans.

Tony focuses on trying to escape the handcuffs. His feet are tied down as well, and getting out of the restraints would prove entirely pointless, but it gives him something to do, something to think about. The sharp pain in his wrist tells him that he is doing it wrong, but if he opens his eyes to check how much blood is running down his arms, he'll have to see what is happening on the bed next to him, and he can't, he _can't._

Perhaps it is five or ten minutes; perhaps it is an hour, or more. But Tony doesn't hear Clint at all. The whole time, there are no screams or yells or begging or anything more than quiet, shallow breaths, over and over again.

And then, suddenly, almost as quickly as it started, the sounds stop. The mattress creaks. Tony deems it safe to open his eyes. When he does, he sees the man getting off the bed, and Clint… he can't help but to draw a sharp breath as he takes in Clint's state.

The archer's legs are covered in blood; Tony can't make himself think about where that came from; and there are gashes on his back. From a belt? Something worse? But before he can start to think, the man's voice breaks into his stupor. 'So, enjoyed that, did you?' And he's still _smiling,_ how the fuck can he be smiling, after…

Clint raises both his hands; slowly, deliberately, maintaining eye contact the whole time; and Tony can't help smiling, despite the situation, when he sees that both of Clint's middle fingers are raised.

The effect on the man is instantaneous. His face darkens, his grin disappearing, his brows low over his eyes, and Tony knows that the man will take his rage out on him.

He promises himself that, when it happens to him, as he knows it will, any second, he will be like Clint. He will remain stoic and strong, not saying a word, not betraying his feelings, nothing. He can't give a reaction. He won't. He _can't._

For the first few moments, he screws his eyes shut, and it is uncomfortable and unfamiliar and _wrong,_ but he can stand it.

But then the pain starts, and he doesn't know how he could ever have believed that he would be okay.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, two updates in a day, I am on a fricken' roll. Be warned that it won't always be like this. :) But THANK YOU SO MUCH for this many hits and kudos and subscriptions in one day - I never imagined that it would gain this much popularity in such a short space of time. Thanks!!
> 
> Edit: omfg I copy pasted that chapter twice, what even -_- sorry about that, guys! And thanks to luuv2shop for telling me about that!! :)


	3. tony: the beginning of the end

Tony is barely aware of the man turning around and leaving the room. There must be a camera here; no one would be stupid enough to leave them in a room unsupervised. But he's so tired, and he's in so much pain, and it just hurts, and he doesn't know if he'd even be able to escape if the door was left wide open for him.

'Hey, Clint?' He can't move without sending waves of agony through his body, but he does his best to shift onto his side. The handcuffs dig into his bloody and bruised wrists, and he supresses a scream.

'Yeah?' The archer's voice is soft, betraying nothing. He is lying on his side, facing Tony, his eyes half closed, curled in on himself.

'What do we do now?'

'I don't know.' In any other situation, Tony knows Clint would have hated admitting to not knowing; but now, his voice is flat, his face empty, and that worries him more than anything else.

'How long do you think we'll be here for?' Clint has to know. He's always the one in control, the one with experience, the one who can predict anything, allow for any outcome…

Clint mumbles something unintelligible, and Tony resists the urge to repeat the question. Neither of them want to admit that things could get worse. 'We need to escape,' he says, trying to motivate Clint to reply, 'or he'll do it again.' He hates the vulnerability in his own voice, but he can't go through that again, he can't.

'It's not like it'll get any easier.' Clint's voice is so quiet that Tony barely hears it, but there's the slightest note of something other than the flat, inflectionless words he had spoken earlier, and Tony is so relieved that he almost misses the meaning in the words.

'How do you know?' Bad idea, bad idea, shut up, stop talking, he tells himself, but he finds himself continuing. 'Have you…' He can't finish that sentence, can't find the right words, the right way to say it. There is nothing right about it, nothing at all.

'Tony, _don't_ ,' and it's the emotion in Clint's words that surprises him, the raw, strong emotion that makes him stop talking.

They don't say anything else.

Time passes; every breath filled with agony, every moment lasting an eternity.

It could be a minute later, or an hour later, or even longer, when the lights go out. There is no warning, no sign; one moment, the lights are on, and the next, they are in pitch darkness. Tony sees Clint's shadow, sitting up as far as the restraints allow, looking around, trying to work out what happened.

Tony tries to sit up, mimicking Clint's position, but the slightest shift of his legs sends blinding agony through his legs, and it hurts, more than words can express. The pain is so severe that his vision blanks out for a moment; the only thing he can do is close his eyes and breathe deeply, swearing under his breath.

It isn't lost on Clint, who turns to lean onto his left arm with only the slightest grimace, showing none of the crushing pain Tony is experiencing, and gives him a concerned look. 'You okay?'

 _Okay?_ The pain is the only thing stopping him from collapsing and possibly never waking up, and there isn't a word in any language to describe the dull ache inside him, the part of him that has been reduced to a sobbing mess within just a few hours. He doesn't feel like he will ever be okay again, let alone now.

A few hours; is that all it's been? He had stepped out of the house in the countryside, with a clear plan, ready to get some vital information, and he had been thinking about breakfast. How can he have been thinking about something so simple, so stupid as breakfast?

How can it have gone so badly wrong?

'Yeah, Legolas, I'm fine,' he says. He aims for a dismissive tone, but his voice is hoarse, and he can't even convince himself, let alone Clint. 'What do you think's happening out there?'

Outside, he hears a loud crash, a strange buzzing, and an explosion. 'Bedtime routine?' Clint suggests. 'A hectic one.'

 _How can you joke, after_ … He can't even say it in his head, let alone out loud, so he stays quiet, refusing to acknowledge the way he wants to yell at the archer, to ask how jokes can even cross his mind.

The noise outside continues; crashes, shrieks, yells. 'A really, really hectic bedtime routine,' Clint deadpans. Tony bites his lip, trying to stay silent. If he didn't know what had happened, if he hadn't seen it, if he had to go by the snarky, normal tone in his voice, he would have been certain that it was just a normal day, that nothing had happened to Clint at all.

 _Does this even affect you at all? Do you care?_ He swallows the caustic words, hating himself for letting the thoughts cross his mind, but unable to stop himself from thinking them all the same.

Instead, to distract himself from the thoughts racing around his head, he closes his eyes; reciting the periodic table backwards, focusing on ways he could improve Jarvis's code, trying to think about something, anything that isn't the burning agony in his lower half, and the dull ache inside his chest.

Suddenly, the door slides open, letting the barest minimum of light into the room, and a shadow enters; silent enough that if it weren't for the smallest of breaths coming from the figure, Tony would genuinely believe that he was hallucinating, that the shadow entering the room was his mind's response to…

He still can't say it.

'No smart remarks? Come on, I know I've got the right room,' and Tony almost gasps, and Clint jerks upwards, and it's Coulson, it's Phil, standing there in the dark, his voice bland as ever.

'Took you long enough,' says Clint, and there's a small smile in his voice. 'You couldn't have come an hour or two earlier? Would've saved us from some serious shit.'

But despite the joking tone in his words, how can he do that, Tony hears Phil's sharp intake of breath. 'God, I'm so sorry, I…'

'Yeah, well, it's fine, it's all fine, can you just focus on getting us the fuck out of here?' Although the words should be brusque and harsh, and they would be if Tony had been the one speaking them, Clint somehow manages to include warmth in his voice, an unspoken apology.

Phil moves over to them, and Tony can't see what's in the bag on his back, but he pulls out something metal that gleams in the small amount of light that there is. 'Tony first, yeah? I can survive a couple minutes longer,' Clint instructs, and Tony wants to protest, but when all he wants to do is get out of the restraints, he can't bring himself to refuse.

'What are the odds that someone'll find us?' Clint asks.

'Low,' says Phil. 'We cut the power, created diversions, the usual.'

But even so, Tony spends the few minutes it takes for Phil to break the metal handcuffs worrying, constantly checking the door, desperately hoping it won't swing open. Phil gives him some worn-looking clothes, but he's in so much pain, and his body feels heavy and numb, and in the few minutes it takes for Phil to break Clint's handcuffs, he has only managed to put on the T-shirt.

He looks up, and can barely believe what he sees; Phil is helping Clint swing his legs over the side of the bed, and they share a chaste, quick kiss, while sitting on that same bed that Clint was… _stop, don't say it, don't think about it…_ Tony knows that he would never have been able to initiate that sort of contact with Steve, and if Steve had tried to do that to him, he would have broken down entirely.

He manages to put the clothes on; Clint and Phil stand up, and he tries to do the same. Although he tries to tell himself that he survived Afghanistan, he can do anything, this isn't as bad as having to construct a replacement for his heart, his legs give out, and he sits abruptly back on the bed. Mentally crossing his fingers, he hopes that his action had gone unnoticed, but it seems his streak of bad luck is continuing; Phil and Clint are both shooting him concerned looks.

'I'm fine, I'm fine,' he says, knowing more than ever that he isn't.

Phil gives him an unconvinced look, but nods. 'Need a hand?' There is no patronising note in his voice, but Tony can't bear the thought of any sort of touch, and shakes his head.

He manages to stand up eventually, hating how much effort it takes, but the world spins, and a surge of dizziness and nausea overwhelms him.

He sees Clint and Phil's intertwined hands; they are the last thing he notices before the world turns dark and he falls to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for how long it took to upload this; hopefully updates will be quicker in the future. thank you so much for all the kudos/bookmarks/comments!!!! i can't believe that i've got this many of them. thank you!! also, any ideas for what's going to happen next? my plan is basically 'angst whump fluff whump feels angst angst fluff h/c etc', so if anyone's got anything they'd like to see, i'm open to ideas :)


	4. tony: meds

Tony wakes up with a jolt, and he doesn't know where he is. He wants to look around, but instinctively keeps his eyes closed, and…

_Hasn't he done this before?_

_Oh god,_ he's back _there_ again. The escape failed, he's tied down to that bed again, he's going to have to go through the same thing again, unable to do anything against the man--

And then he realises; he's not tied down.

He opens his eyes, and relief overwhelms him.

He is in a bed in the Tower, with a heart monitor beeping rhythmically in the background, with low voices and the faint smell of bleach and antiseptic in the air. He knows he has been here before, countless times, after battles against strange and mysterious beings; if he closes his eyes, he could almost tell himself that they had defeated some strange super-villain, that they would have to go for a debrief, and he would snark at Steve and Fury, and Natasha would give him disapproving glares but he would know she was trying to hide a smirk, and he would go to his workshop and improve Clint's bow and arrow, or find some new way to communicate with the other guy, and it would be _normal,_ as normal as it could be in the Tower.

But it's not normal.

How can he ever return to the life he had?

How can everything have changed so much in a day?

The faint beeping of the heart monitor speeds up, faster and faster, and intellectually he knows he's hyperventilating, but he can't do anything about it, and there are people around him, talking in low, soothing voices, _it's going to be okay,_ but it's not okay, it's never going to be okay again…

 

 

                                                                                               *         *         *

They must have put him on meds after that, because time passes differently.

He sleeps, and sometimes it's peaceful.

The oblivion is a welcome release.

Sometimes he replays every second of... of  _that_ in his head. He can't admit it, can't say what happened, but does that matter?

Nothing matters.

Is it the meds?

He thinks of code he could add to Jarvis's software.

He wonders, vaguely, where Clint is.

Is it the meds, or is he getting better?

He's getting better.

He has to be.

The concerned looks, pitying smiles… they're all idiots. No one has anything to worry about. He's not _traumatized,_ or _a victim,_ or any other one of those quiet, murmured words that they all think he can't hear. He's _fine,_ he'll be fine; he has to be.

 

                                                                                               *         *         *

 

He has to give a statement.

Doesn't he?

Did he?

Was it his imagination?

Maybe this is all something his mind is making up.

Maybe it's all just a dream.

Everything feels… strange. He can't articulate it in his mind, and feels like an idiot for even trying to do so, but it's something, and he knows it.

He's sure they asked him.

Didn't they?

_What happened?_

_I was on a mission with Clint._

_We had to…_

_We were…_

He couldn't speak. That has to have been real. What did he say? Did he say anything? Is any of it real?

_There was a tranq gun, and then I woke up and we were… we were there…_

_There?_

Did he start to explain? He remembers the choking, suffocating darkness, remembers not being able to breathe or think…

It's a dream.

It has to be.

Some stupid figment of his imagination. He's sleeping now. That's why everything feels strange. What other explanation could it be? They wouldn't keep him on meds for this long, would they?

How can he have gone through all of… all of _that_ in the space of a day? How can the mission have gone wrong? SHIELD can't have messed up.

It's all a dream, and maybe soon he'll wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i know it's been forever since i've updated. i haven't been in a good place mentally. things are looking up now, though. fingers crossed everything'll get better soon.  
> thank you all so so so so much for reviewing, reading, subscribing, bookmarking... seriously, it means everything to me. can't express how amazing it is :)  
> hopefully i managed to convey the whole thing of it not actually being a dream. being on strong psych meds can really mess you up if the dosage is too high, and that often happens as they try to work out what dosage's best for you. (i have a bit of personal experience, but that's just me. using some artistic license here as well.) i'm kind of making it so that tony convinced himself it's all a dream, because that's what he wanted to believe, if that makes sense?  
> definitely open to suggestions here, are there any characters or specific plots you guys want to see? :)


	5. clint: dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: rape, victim blaming (but like the victim blaming himself)  
> read with care ok? it won't get any more graphic than it already has, and i'll warn triggers for each chapter, but idk just stay safe guys  
> 25/7/18 update: this was previously breakfast, but i can't do timelines for shit, so this is the evening of when clint comes out of hospital on day 3, and it's dinner now

The smell of food is what lures Clint downstairs to the kitchen; the moment he sees Natasha standing over a frying pan as if the sheer force of her glare will make the dinner faster, and Steve cracking eggs into a bowl, and Thor sitting at the table with his chin in his hands, he feels like everything is as it was. Perhaps if he closes his eyes for just one second, he can pretend that the mission never happened, that it's just another ordinary day where they're going to--

'Hey, Clint, are you alright?'

It's Bruce's voice that jerks him out of his moment of peace. He jumps, and then curses himself inwardly; he is Clint Barton, assassin and the best archer there is - he does not flinch, especially from mild-mannered Bruce just _speaking to him._ What kind of an idiot must he be to allow that to have affected him? It was a mission that went wrong. Missions have gone wrong before, and he hasn't ever been affected by them. 'Yeah, all good,' he replies, but Bruce gives him an unconvinced look.

'How was the mission?' asks Thor.

'It was…' Clint trails off. _A complete clusterfuck_. 'Shield fucked up, but they're sending some other guys out to complete it, so it could have ended much worse.'

'You ended up in hospital, Clint.' Steve's face is open and concerned, and Clint instantly feels awful. 'That's not… that's not just could've been worse. They said you weren't in a condition to have visitors. They're still saying that about Tony. We don't--'

'They said that?' It's news to him. 'I didn't- I thought you guys--' _I thought you didn't want to visit me. I thought you knew what they had done to me, and didn't want anything to do with me because of it. I thought you knew how weak I was, that you didn't want to waste your time with me._ 'I didn't realise you guys had tried to visit.'

Natasha raises her eyebrows, and he simultaneously realises how stupid he sounds, and wonders why they would visit him if they knew what happened. _I should have saved Tony. I should have tried harder. I should have done something, anything…_

'What happened?' she asks, expertly flipping a pancake. 'Steve's been driving himself mad worrying about Tony; the least you could do is give us some information.' It's the first time she's spoken since he entered the kitchen, and her tone is gentle, quieter than usual. Steve flushes, looking away, but he doesn't deny it.

Clint hesitates, and she must see it, because she pushes a plate of pancakes towards him. 'Eat first, talk later, okay?' He nods, afraid that if he says anything his voice will crack and he'll reveal how weak he was and how he couldn't save Tony, how he wasn't good enough. He says nothing, and picks up a fork, only realising how hungry he is as he takes the first bite, and barely registers Natasha and Thor whispering to each other, or Bruce's concerned looks, or the way Steve, standing at the counter with no food, just a steaming mug in his hands, looks pale and tired, the dark shadows under his eyes more pronounced than ever.

But it's the absence of the coffee machine's whirr that somehow he can't draw his attention away from, because the only reason it's not on is because Tony isn't here to mainline coffee like he always does, because _Clint couldn't fucking save him._ With a sigh, he closes his eyes, leans back in his chair, and wonders how he could have allowed things to have gone so badly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN UPDATE  
> clint pov woot woot  
> giant-ass mental and physical health problems have really knocked me sideways and also exams suck but all over now so will update more regularly and longer chapters with any luck  
> also 100+ kudos holy crap thank you thank you thank you you guys are the best  
> and do americans differentiate between crepes and pancakes because crepes are better than those giant ass stacks like what even are those we don't have them in the uk


	6. tony: reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> triggers: rape aftermath, victim self-blaming, blink and you'd miss it allusions to self harm  
> also: tell me if there's any triggers i should warn for that i haven't already  
> also also: in need of pov suggestions so comment characters and plot lines that you want to see? (will give credit) *puppy eyes*

Reality returns, harsh and grating on all of Tony's senses.

Hazy shapes become sharper, faded colours become bright, and his thoughts gradually become faster. A few weeks ago, he would have been delighted to have his mind back, but now, after everything that has happened, he just wants to sleep. He wants to close his eyes, and sleep, and not wake up until he has forgotten everything. Will he ever forget? Will it ever stop being the only thing he ever thinks of? Will innocuous things stop reminding him of _that_ happening?

Yet perhaps reality isn't the worst; it's the memories that come back with it.

_Stop trying to pretend; I know you're awake._

_Enjoyed that, did you?_

A light tap on the door jolts him out of his mind; he opens his mouth to order whoever it is to go away, but the creak of the door and quiet footsteps towards the bed remind him that he has no control over anything anymore.

It's only when he twists his head to see who came through the door that he becomes aware of how much everything _hurts;_ so much so that it's not even worth cataloguing all the aches and pains. The sharp, burning agony spreading through his lower half has subsided since… _that_ happened, and the cuts and bruises adorning his wrists and arms have faded considerably, but it's the dull ache around his chest that hasn't changed; the knowledge that nothing will ever be the same again, that he'll never forget what he has gone through.

'Hello, Tony,' and it's Phil, of _course_ it's Phil; the bland voice cuts into his spiraling thoughts. 'You've been out for a while. Do you want some water?'

Tony nods, ignoring the sharp stab of pain that the movement sends through him, and tries to sit up, taking the plastic cup with a nod of thanks. He has been formulating sentences and speeches for when he sees Phil, words and sentences spinning around his brain; _thank you_ or _you saved us_ or perhaps _please tell me this gets easier_.  But what comes out is, 'Don't tell Steve.'

Phil's mouth twitches in what could be a smile. 'And here I was thinking you had--'

Trying to think of the words feels like walking through treacle. _It'll take a little while to come off the meds completely, but it's nothing to worry about_ ; a flash of memory, the nurse's voice. Pushing all other thoughts out of his head, he cuts Phil off. 'You haven't told him already, have you?' His voice is hoarse and grating, and each word is agony, but it is worth it for the shake of Phil's head, and for the overwhelming relief that follows.

The tight band around his chest loosens just a little, until Phil opens his mouth. Tony shakes his head, knowing what he'll say, but the words come anyway. 'Tony, when you're ready you should talk to Steve. It'll cause more damage if you hide it from him.'

'He won't understand.' It's a pointless excuse and they both know it, but neither of them break the silence that follows, until Tony asks, 'Who else knows?'

'Clint's told the team that the mission went wrong, but not what happened.' Phil's expression is as inscrutable as ever, and Tony nods slowly, trying to digest the information, until something occurs to him.

'Wait, they visited Clint?' He tries to keep his voice neutral, but the incredulity is as obvious to him as it must be to Phil.

'No.' The agent makes no attempt to continue speaking, but Tony fixes his gaze on him until Phil sighs, a fleeting look of frustration crossing his features. 'Clint was allowed to leave the hospital three days ago. He's been constantly asking to see you, but you weren't in a fit state to have visitors.'

A thousand possible responses rise up in his mind; stinging words designed to hurt, or sharp and sarcastic replies, but instead he bites his tongue and stays silent. The burning, boiling anger in his chest isn't aimed at Phil, he knows that, but it's so hard to stay quiet when all he wants to do is scream or yell, because how can Clint be out of the hospital when Tony is still in bed, when he is barely coming off who knows what medicine? How can he have recovered so fast; or is it Tony that is recovering slowly?

How can Clint be with the rest of the Avengers when Tony is… like this?

'Like what?' Phil asks, and oh _shit,_ how much of that did he say out loud? 'Not much; don't worry,' and Tony vaguely contemplates smacking his head against the wall until he gives himself a severe enough concussion to forget the events of the past week.

Instead, he takes a deep breath; in, then out, and then asks, 'When do I get out?'

'When they've deemed you fit enough to leave. They want to revisit a couple of things in your statement; you were under the influence of a lot of medication at the time, and Fury says some details still need to be clarified.'

Tony rolls his eyes so hard that a stab of pain shoots through his temples. ' _Great._ Can't Clint just tell them-- tell them what he saw?' His voice almost gives out on him halfway through the sentence, but Phil is kind enough not to acknowledge it; he feels pathetically grateful for that one small mercy.

'No, and you know that,' the agent replies, and continues with uncharacteristic gentleness. 'You know they need it from you as well.'

'Frankly, I'd rather deep-throat a cactus,' Tony states, and despite the situation, Phil snorts with laughter, barely disguising his smile. 'I was being serious,' he adds.

'Well, unfortunately, I'm not sure Shield have any cacti,' Phil tells him, and Tony laughs; possibly for the first time since - since _that_ happened.

Perhaps there's hope after all.

                                                                                               *         *         *

 

The feeling of optimism lasts precisely thirteen minutes. In the twelve minutes that it takes to set up the equipment to record his statement; because _let's get it over with_ , Tony had figured at the time; he had felt a faint gnawing of fear, his mind trying to resist his efforts to revisit the memories, but nothing worse. _Perhaps there wasn't much to what Clint did. Maybe I'll be fine. I'm going to be alright._

And in the one minute after the tape began, anything he was feeling was irrevocably replaced by the emotions that have become far too familiar to him; fear, panic, dread, terror, and the overwhelming feeling of _stop, I cannot do this_ ; his brain screaming _please don't make me go through this again, telling himself just one time, just once, and then you can forget it ever happened._

'What happened when you woke up?'

 _Come on, it's just a question. Just memories. You can do this._ 'I… I was on a bed, and we… I was chained up…' _Stop pretending. I know you're awake_.  'I stayed still but he knew I was awake.' _Deep breaths_ , and it's Jarvis that he imagines, talking him through his panic and the memories and the voices that just _won't shut up._ 'And then he said…'

'What did he say, Tony? You're doing well.' He doesn't even know the name of the woman he's talking to; a Shield agent, with grey eyes, a forgettable face.

'I can't… I don't remember,' and that's a complete lie; the words are burned into his brain, but he can't, he can't…

'Keep breathing, Tony; I know this is hard.'

'What do you know?' he snaps; hating himself for being horrible to someone who doesn’t deserve it, hating himself for not knowing any other defence mechanism, hating himself for being weak enough to allow that to happen to him. Perhaps it shouldn't matter; it wasn't his fault _(or was it?_ ) and he couldn't have done anything about what happened ( _but could he have fought harder?_ ) and he knows his team won't judge him _(or will they_ ), but he just can't stop thinking.

He gets through it eventually; he had told himself that he'd be calm and composed the whole way through, but the resolve is long dead by the time he finishes. Stuttering, panicking, shaking, he had almost asked to stop halfway through; it was thoughts of Jarvis that calmed him enough to fight against the memories that threatened to invade his head. The grey-eyed woman turned out to be called Elena, and a therapist; when the memories had begun to overwhelm him, she had talked a little about herself. She doesn't look at him with pity, just empathy, something that he appreciated the whole way through the interview.

God, he wishes Steve were here.

No. Steve can't be here. Steve can never know about this. He'll do whatever it takes to hide this.

'Are you okay?' He doesn't know when Elena came back; she laughs. 'Yes, that's a stupid question; of course you're not,' and he finds himself liking her more and more with every word. 'Is there anything I can do to make things a little easier?'

'I'm good,' he replies; only just registering the tears pricking his eyes. 'All fine and good.'

It's the meds, he tells himself, it's the damn meds. They're what's making him so shaky and emotional; he would never be like this otherwise. He's fine; he's absolutely fine. The concerned looks, the pitying smiles from everyone in the room during his statement… they're all idiots. They don't have anything to worry about.

There's nothing to worry about, he keeps telling himself.

He'll be fine.

He repeats this, over and over and over, you'll be fine you'll be fine there's nothing to worry about you'll be fine, and perhaps if he tells himself these few words enough, he'll start to convince himself.

_You'll be fine. You'll manage._

Will he?

And with each breath, he hopes that maybe one day, repeating the words over and over again, he'll start to believe them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long chapter y'all woohoo (it's like a third of the length of the entire story)  
> also update on the pancake thing: i tried the giant-ass stack things and actually they are really good  
> you guys are awesome thank you so much for kudos comments subscriptions other things. knowing that there are people out there who read and enjoy my writing means more to me than i can say


	7. phil: the end of the beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SHE LIVES  
> this was going so well until i read some other avengers fanfics and now i'm feeling ugh about my writing because everyone elses' seems better and more well thought out, so... idk anymore

This wasn't the worst week of Phil's life, but it was most definitely close.

The moment that he had received the call from SHIELD;  _the mission didn't go according to plan, we need you to get them out;_  he had been a little worried that something had gone wrong. But if he had to be honest with himself, the enormity of the situation hadn't hit him for a long while, far too long. It was a routine mission, something that should have been easy and straightforward. Enjoyable, even, for adrenaline junkies like Clint and Tony. Nothing was supposed to go wrong. 

 

_'Phil, it's fine,' Clint says. 'We find the bad guys, we get the bad guys, we come back home, job done, glory and free cookies for all. It'll be the easiest thing. The guys aren't even superheroes or anything. They're just humans. It'll be alright.'_

_'Supervillians,' corrects Phil._

_'True. We're the superheroes.'_

_'You're human. You're not invincible.' Phil doesn't need to point this out. He never needs to point this out, and yet he does anyway, every single time._ _Sometimes, in the dark and fragile space between midnight and sunrise, when he lies awake, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, he wonders if Clint's luck is due to run out. It's not luck, it's skill, he tries to reassure himself, knowing that Clint is a full-grown adult who can take care of himself, who could take care of himself long before Phil ever knew him; but he worries. He can't deny that he worries, and he's worrying now, a little too much. 'You're not invincible,' he repeats._

 _Clint doesn't take offence. He just shrugs, that lopsided grin on_ _his face_ _, leaning into Phil. 'It'll be alright. Remind me when I come back next week to say that I told you so.'_

 

He hadn't been entirely convinced; not then, at least. But the call, when it came, didn't shake him at all. It was midnight, and he was in the communal kitchen area of the Tower, brutally aware of how late it was and how tired it was and how he just wanted to eat dinner and then sleep for at least twelve hours.  _The mission didn't go according to plan;_ not like anyone at SHIELD to beat around the bush. Perhaps there should have been a tightness in his chest, foreboding, just  _knowing_ that something had gone truly, badly wrong; it wasn't like he was too tired or numb to understand the situation; he was Phil Coulson, and he didn't get tired or numb; but there was nothing. 'I'm on my way,' he'd said calmly, trying not to let the resignation in his voice come through. He'd downed three cups of coffee and driven for three hours straight, thinking the whole time that someone had made a stupid mistake, like Budapest again, nothing serious and nothing that they couldn't get out of. 

They were fine, of  _course_ they were fine, he'd told himself. He knew that a team from SHIELD were there already, wherever  _there_ was; making some kind of a diversion, so that he could go right into the room that Clint and Tony were in. It had taken him mere seconds to memorise the map and their location in the building, but the place was a maze of corridors and dark, empty rooms, locked doors, and it had taken him far too long to get to them. 

That was the moment when the reality of the situation hit him. 

 

_He pushes the door open, slowly and softly, letting some light from the corridor come into this dark, dark room. There is no talking, but he hears the unmistakable sound of breathing; for a heart-stopping moment, he thinks he has the wrong room, that he has messed up, that SHIELD has messed up; but then, from the light outside, he sees it and he sees them and oh god, oh, God. This is bad._

_Chains, and a bed, and no clothes on either of them, and he doesn't waste energy or effort pretending not to know exactly what happened._

_'No smart remarks? Come on, I know I've got the right room,' he says in a casual tone that wouldn't fool either of them on any day except this one, walking towards the two beds, swinging his backpack around to take out what he needs. He had envisioned needing the specialised equipment that Tony had created for any given situation, to get them out of any given restraint possible, but these are the most basic of handcuffs. They weren't even trying, he finds himself thinking._

_'Took you long enough. You couldn't have come an hour or two earlier? Would've saved us from some serious shit,' says Clint. His voice is hoarse, his eyes bloodshot, and in the dim blue light Phil can see his smile. It's meant to be reassuring, something so Clint-like and casual that on some level Phil knows he's okay, but the words sting in a way they shouldn't._

_'God, I'm so sorry,' and there goes his calm and casual exterior. SHIELD should've called him earlier. He should have driven faster. Surely there was a shorter route that he could have taken. There must have been something, anything, that could have allowed him to get to Clint and Tony in time._

_'Yeah, well, it's fine, it's all fine,' says Clint, but Phil is only half-aware of his words._

 

He got them out eventually; of course he did. But the memories of Tony's blackout, Clint furiously wiping tears from his eyes, navigating back through the corridors with Tony barely conscious, let alone able to stand, everything about the drive back, have been playing on repeat in his head for the past few days, and every night when he closes his eyes, he doesn't think he can ever be free of them. 

 _Stop. Breathe,_ he tells himself, just as he does every time it starts to get too much. Deep inhale, deep exhale. He's in the communal kitchen again, just as he was when this all started,  _but don't think about that just now, focus,_ making cheesecake brownies; Clint's favourite dessert. He doesn't spend all that much time in the Tower itself, and almost all of that time is spent with Clint, but the rest of the team needs something to cheer them up a little.

Clint and Tony had both been in SHIELD's hospital unit for three days. Phil had stayed in the hospital for almost a day straight, worrying himself sick over how long it would take for them to wake up, over what the _hell_ he was going to say to Steve, to the rest of the team, before one of the medics had taken him aside and gently told him that he needed to rest if he wanted to take care of Clint once he'd woken up. Since then, Clint had woken up and was recovering, relatively functional, relatively unhurt; considering what could have happened, he was doing very well. Elena, the only therapist Clint genuinely liked and trusted, who had helped Clint adjust to SHIELD after his life in the circus, had been talking to him; Phil didn't know what they had been saying, but he trusted her. The only thing that she had told Phil is that he seemed in a fit state to leave and go back to the Tower that afternoon, assuming his condition didn't deteriorate since then.

Tony hadn't been doing nearly as well. Phil had seen him in the hospital, but visiting him for the five minutes that he was allowed had been strange. Seeing Clint half-conscious, in pain, unguarded, his walls down, hadn't been jarring at all; they had been on so many missions together, for years before the Avengers had been formed; it had been Clint and Coulson and Tasha and they were an inimitable, indestructible,  _invincible_ team, and injuries were as much a part of the job as anything else. And perhaps their intimacy;  _intimacy,_ it was still a little strange to think of that word attached to Clint; was another form of letting their guard down around each other. But Tony was a completely different story. He didn't relax around anyone, sharp and sarcastic, with an answer for everything, not ever giving a shit, barbed insults meant to sting just sliding off him; constantly talking and shouting and laughing and bullshitting. Nothing stuck to him, and it had taken Phil a while to realise that this was one thing he wasn't going to just come back from easily.

 

_A sharp inhale, stuttering exhale, and Clint jerks awake, and Phil is by his side in an instant; 'Clint, hey, you're safe here. You've been out for a day or so, you're in SHIELD's hospital. You're safe.' Clint nods, his eyelids fluttering, mumbling something incoherent._

_'He's likely to drift in and out of consciousness for the next few hours,' the doctor tells him. Tony and Clint were both rushed off to the hospital unit as soon as he brought them back, and Phil has spent the last twenty-four hours on his feet, watching over Clint, trying to negotiate visiting Tony. He nods, holding onto the last of his composure. He needs a walk, he needs some coffee, but he needs to be there for Clint when he wakes up. No matter how bad he's feeling, of_ course  _Clint will have been through so much worse._

_'What will happen after this?' he asks the doctor, his voice steady._

_'He'll need a while to recover, both physically and mentally, of course.' It's exactly what Phil is expecting, and he would not have believed her had she said anything else, but his heart breaks once again. Is it too much to ask to have just one routine mission? This was supposed to be straightforward, he thinks, looking at Clint again. He's fallen asleep again, exhaustion visible on his face even in unconsciousness. 'He's strong. He'll bounce back,' she adds._

_'What about Tony?'_

_She hesitates. 'No long-term physical damage, as far as we know. He seems to have come off worse, and we're keeping him sedated for a little longer, but we're confident they'll both make a good recovery over time.'_

_'Has anyone told Steve?' It's the question he's been putting off, because of course no one will have bothered to tell Steve anything, and the man will be borderline frantic, and he doesn't want to be the one to break any of this news. The doctor shakes her head, and yet again she's only confirming what he already knows, but he feels a sinking in his chest at the thought of having to explain the situation. Is there any good news that he can relay?_

 

Mixing the brownie batter proves to be strangely therapeutic, taking Phil's mind off everything, just for a few minutes. The late afternoon's sunshine rays are slanting through the window, with barely a cloud in the sky. He estimates a few minutes between the brownies going in the oven and the rest of the team appearing in the kitchen; although none of them have been the same since hearing about the mission's end, hopefully the opportunity for good food will tempt them into the kitchen.

Upon hearing the news, the day after Clint had woken up, with Tony still barely conscious, Natasha and Steve had retreated into the training room for the rest of the day. No one had spoken about their bruises and scarred knuckles the next day; Natasha's deadly silence didn't faze him, but Steve's quiet fury had scared them all. He hadn't interrogated Phil about the details;  _they were badly hurt,_ nothing more, not enough. Bruce had been meditating, and he hadn't taken his headphones off for hours. No one had seen Thor in days. 

Phil had thought that he couldn't be surprised by anything the Avengers did anymore. But when Bruce comes into the kitchen, with a slight limp, holding his headphones, wearing a baggy, oversized jumper that he recognises as one of Tony's cast-offs, and asks, 'What happened to them?', he has to take a moment before answering. He had expected both Steve and Natasha to demand the details of absolutely everything that had happened, everything that he knew, to be able to see Clint and Tony; perhaps they understood more about the situation than he'd given them credit for, but perhaps they'd sneaked into the medical department to see them, or interrogated someone at SHIELD's medical department. But when Bruce had quietly nodded, taken a deep breath and asked, 'When will they be out?', Phil had thought that would be the end of it.

'It seems that the guys they were looking for knew they were coming. They knocked them out, took them to a building a few hours from here, and we think they were planning to... to hurt them,' Phil says. He tries to keep his voice calm and clinical and detached, trying not to worry Bruce, but his voice cracks at the end of the sentence. He turns away, busying himself with putting the sugar and flour back in the cupboards.

'That's exactly what you told us before,' Bruce says flatly. 'I'm not stupid. We're not stupid. So what the hell happened, and why can't we see them?' 

'It's a difficult situation,' Phil replies honestly. 'We don't know what exactly happened over the past few days. They've been sleeping,'  _is it sleeping if they were sedated?_ 'Tony isn't in a good enough state for visitors, and the doctor thinks people seeing him in his vulnerable state will only agitate him more, which we don't want. Clint's coming back this afternoon. He's doing better now--'

'But we're his  _friends,'_ and Bruce's voice is agonised. Phil turns round, looking at him properly for the first time, and sees the raw emotion in his eyes. 'I had to talk Steve out of getting into there with brute force. I know he might not be awake right now but we want to be there, Coulson.  _Please.'_

'I'll see what I can do,' is all he says. 'No promises. I'll try and get you in.'

 

                                                                                               *         *         *

 

Clint is deemed healthy enough to be released from the hospital that afternoon. Phil is with him the whole time, but he can't shake the feeling that he's actually talking to a stranger in Clint's body. He looks like he hasn't slept in months, his replies are monotone and mumbled, and he walks at half his normal speed; the walk from the medical unit to Clint's floor of the Tower is spent mostly in silence.

When they finally reach Clint's room, Phil watches as Clint pushes open the door. Before he can step inside, Clint says, 'I'll see you later, I guess.' 

Of all the things that Phil expected him to say, it wasn't that. 'You want me to go?' 

'You want to be here?' Clint returns, a sharp and bitter twist to his voice.

'Clint, of course I do,' Phil protests, searching for something to say to convince him.  _I don't want you alone right now._

'I just... I need some space at the moment. I'm alright, I swear.' He tries to ignore how Clint's words feel like a punch to the stomach.  _Taking this personally, after all he's been through? You're better than that,_ he tells himself, but it's hard to believe. 'I need a shower and a proper sleep.' 

'Is there anything else I can do?' he asks. 

Clint hesitates. 'Can I... can I have a hug?' 

Phil steps forward and wraps his arms around Clint's waist, slow and gentle, and Clint hugs him back, tight and fast and warm just for a moment, and then steps back. It takes all of the self-control Phil has not to reach out to him again, despite every indication of Clint not wanting any more physical contact than that.

'Want me to wake you up tomorrow?' Phil asks. Clint jerks his head in an approximation of a nod. 

'I'll see you then,' Clint says, and then before Phil can reply, the door closes in his face. 

He stands there for nearly ten minutes before admitting defeat.

 

                                                                                                *         *         *

 

Phil walks downstairs to the kitchen, to see the rest of the team making eggs and bacon and pancakes, Clint's favourite. The second he walks in, they all look at him expectantly. 'Any news?' asks Bruce quietly.

'I'm going to see how Tony's doing,' says Phil, trying to ignore the way Steve's hopeful face falls. 'Clint's in his room. He needs space. He may come down for dinner, though. Don't ask him about what happened just yet.' 

Then he turns around and leaves. He hopes Clint will come down for dinner, but Phil doesn't want to be there just yet. Not when Clint so obviously doesn't want to see him or talk to him. He types out a text to Clint;  _here if you need me._ There is no reply, but what was he expecting? The words of the doctor ring in his ears, an hour after Clint had been taken away to a hospital room.  _Rape recovery isn't easy,_ and god, he just wants to make it all better, and he  _can't._

The feeling of powerlessness that haunts him for the rest of the night is something he can hardly bear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i edited the chapter of breakfast - it's now dinner, because i can't do timelines for shit. after this, clint goes down to dinner, and that's chapter 5. i hope this makes sense. 
> 
> thank you for reading <3 <3 <3


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